Oblivion
by Marauding
Summary: The Marauders - those loud, arrogant troublemakers - never seemed to have the time for Peter Pettigrew. / An insight into Wormtail's betrayal, T for infrequent swearing.


_Harry Potter and its various characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

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**[October 18****th****, 1981]**

"_Then you should have died! Died, rather than betray your friends, as we would have done for you!"_

Peter Pettigrew wishes for oblivion.

And although he is alone and trembling and fucking _terrified, _Peter finds himself staring with an almost alarming amount of fascination at his jumper. It's got a miniature tear near the wrist where, as an almost nervous habit, Peter often sticks his thumb. He can't remember where the jumper came from and he guesses that it simply popped into existence, hanging neatly in his cupboard, like so many of his clothes were want to do. And although it's never occurred to Peter before, he is suddenly blown away by the fact that – if you look close enough, which Peter is – the jumper is made up of thousands of individual threads, all woven together. It makes Peter feel both trapped and comforted: contrasting. Peter's full of opposites. It's something that he likes about himself.

His hand appears almost detached; a pale, clammy fist. Peter Pettigrew is frightened. Peter Pettigrew is terrified and trembling and alone. He is alone and insignificant and _nothing matters anymore. _ If Sirius were here he would tell him to Man Up, but Peter's sick of having to Man Up. Peter does not feel especially manly, he feels pathetic and rotten and alone and _fucking terrified. _ Peter wants somebody to be standing with him, he wants somebody to take him home and tell him what to do and how to react and how to Man Up and how to not feel so God-damn pathetic _all of the time_. He wants to collapse. He wants to close his eyes and he wants everything to have repaired itself: he wants this rotten war to not exist and he wants to Man Up and he wants somebody to be standing with him and he wants to not be in this position, this horrible position of power, and he wants to sleep and sleep and sleep. Peter Pettigrew wants to no longer feel.

Peter Pettigrew wishes for oblivion.

There is a war waging against Peter's ribcage as he brings his knuckles to the door. Everything feels horribly dramatic and an insane bubble of hysteria grips his throat. Peter knocks _one, two, three _before he remembers, with a sudden clarity, that the jumper came from Remus. Moony's forever giving stationary and cardigans away as presents, it's one of his quirks, like how he stores his quill behind his ear and refuses to eat mashed potatoes and how if Remus wants something his way, which is most of the time, he'll stare pointedly at you until you give in. And Remus is a genius and withdrawn and self-deprecating and almost heartbreakingly kind and Peter _hates _stationary. He finds no appeal in the smell and he loathes ink-stained fingers and the sight of a blank scroll makes him feel confused and, though he would never admit this out loud, a little frightened. Peter feels as though Remus should know that. Peter feels as though Remus should notice. Nobody notices that scrolls confuse Peter and that ink-stains repulse him. Nobody remembers and nobody cares and Peter finds himself resenting the Marauders, those loud, arrogant troublemakers, a little more.

The door swings open and the figure, outlined and terrible, looks down.

And Peter – alone, trembling, terrified, fucking _Peter – _smiles up at Lord Voldemort.

**[October 16****th****, 1981]**

Peter diligently attempts to refrain from whistling. Peter is not a whistler: he is a boisterous, charming hummer. Peter's not even entirely convinced that he _can _whistle, if this whoosh of air from his pursed lips can even be classified as a tune.

Peter Pettigrew is not a whistler, but finds himself whistling all the same.

With a dainty skip that Peter would never admit to doing – for surely Sirius would shun him – he leaves the kitchen, toast in hand. The toast is perfect, the inexplicable whistling feels perfect. Life is curiously wonderful for Peter Pettigrew. Which is ridiculous, of course; there is a war waging outside his window, his life is falling apart and, of course, the Potter's are in hiding.

Peter knows all about the Potter's and their hiding, for he is their _Secret Keeper. _Wormtail! Mousy, pathetic Wormtail trusted with the life of _James Potter. _James and Lily Potter! And the child, Harry!

It is, without a doubt, one of Peter's more brilliant moments.

**[November 1****st****, 1981]**

The house is smoking slightly; a peculiar scent wafts over from the rubble. It is said that the baby survived.

Fucking _fuck_, Peter thinks to himself, leaning slightly over the Potter's front fence. The fence that once belonged to the Potter's. The fence that the Potter's no longer own as they are dead. The fence that is no longer in the Potter's ownership because they trusted their friend, Peter, with their whereabouts and Peter betrayed that secret and now, now they are _dead. _They are _gone. _Prongs. Peter supposes that James died in a fit of heroics. He supposes that Lily and James died fighting or that, perhaps, it was silent and quick and they had no time to think: '_Peter. Peter is to blame_.' Peter supposes and supposes until he has to stop supposing because it makes him feel ill and terrible.

They're saying that He Who Must Not Be Named died. That he was finished by a baby. Though Peter thinks this is ridiculous because babies don't _finish _Dark Lords and babies don't survive killing curses and friends don't betray other friends and Peter should Disapparate before Sirius comes after him because _Sirius knows _and _Sirius will be furious _and _everything is broken and horrible and wrong. _

Peter Pettigrew wishes for oblivion.

**[1970-1977]**

The thin, scarred boy is pretending to sleep whilst Sirius Black re-enacts for the nth time the beating he gave Snivellus. Peter watches with the curiosity of a puppy, eyes bright with suppressed laughter. Potter stopped laughing the fourth time and stopped listening all together during the eighth, turning instead to his packing.

'You're all right, Pettigrew,' Black says, nodding towards him.

Peter flushes with pride.

.

'Why didn't you tell me?'

'Peter, look, we weren't entirely sure if it was true or not and we weren't about to accuse somebody of being a _werewolf _without serious evidence towards it,' James says.

'But I could have helped!'

'No offence, Pete, mate, but you're a bit of a wet blanket. We didn't want to frighten you.' Sirius thinks he's being consoling and calm, but merely succeeds in crushing Peter's diminishing ego further.

Even Remus, terrified Remus who trusts _no one _and who is a _werewolf _and who believes that he's about to be turned in and locked up and whipped and beheaded, gives Peter a look of pity.

.

The sleek dog darts forward, barking occasionally at the terrifying wolf. Their tongues are lolling, insane enjoyment laced between their pupils. Peter struggles to keep up, tiny legs darting forward and heart pounding and _escape, escape! _running through his rodent brain. Nobody notices that he is lagging behind and he finds himself watching, from a distance, his best friends travelling on easily without him.

.

'A-and I told him, no, wait, I went: "hey, Sniv!" and he went: "oh, why if it isn't dashing Padfoot! Whatever did I do to deserve your brilliant attention?" and then h-he went, no, no wait, then _I _went-'

James is livid, his lips pressed white. Peter is merely frightened.

'-yeah, so _I _went: "why not touch the knot on the willow, if you're so damn curious about Lupin!" and then he, stupid he, went: "why, my beautiful comrade, I believe I shall-"'

'Sirius, this is _not a joke_,' James says, voice quiet and furious and shaking.

'You mean it's _serious_?' Sirius asks.

James throws the first punch. And then they're both rolling around on the ground, ink splattering their clothing and staining the floor, and they're getting twisted in the blankets and they're both going for each other's necks and everything is chaos and Peter is confused and frightened and Sirius is saying: '_gerroff, gerroff' _and James is going: _'shit, shit!' _and James' nose is bleeding and Sirius' shirt is torn and their eyes are locked, hitting and hitting and hitting until _'enough!' _Peter says frantically but they don't hear him and it's difficult to tell whose blood is whose and then James smashes his best mate against the bed frame and Sirius swears, loudly, and Peter screams _'enough!' _again but they continue to ignore him.

**[October 17****th****, 1981]**

The fly-screen has been torn out of its frame; shavings of paint crumble from the walls. The furniture has been carelessly knocked over and each step _twinkles _due to the dusting of glass. It is a war scene. It is chaos. Peter Pettigrew wants to cry.

The figure, hooded and terrible, stands calmly in the door way. 'Evening,' Voldemort says – _evening _– before pulling a wand from his cloak.

Peter Pettigrew wants to curl up and die.

'It is with admittedly little regret that I must kill you, Pettigrew.'

Peter wants to scream or vomit or both.

'You're the Secret Keeper, I believe?'

Peter, for one fleeting, ignorant moment, considers pulling his own wand out and _Avada Kedavra_ing Voldemort.

'Y-yes,' Peter whispers.

'Y-yes, my Lord,' Voldemort corrects, removing his hood and sneering slightly.

Peter Pettigrew can no longer feel his limbs.

'The Potter's, give me their location, boy.'

Peter raises his chin and, with a surprising amount of bravery, remains silent.

'No?' And with a deliberately poor aim a green curse is sent straight past Peter's ear. Peter drops to his knees, breathing out of control, tears now running freely. He is hyperventilating and hating, _despising _Sirius for not being Secret Keeper and _why _did Wormtail willingly agree to this? And _why _him, why him? Voldemort is standing over him now, cloak brushing Peter's hands and Voldemort is laughing _– laughing – _and Peter is screaming for mercy and _ow, pain, ow_ and _Cruciatus _and _white, white, pain! _and _please, please! _A cupboard crashes to the floor to Peter's right, plates sent sailing and glasses smashing and wasn't it Lily that bought him those cups? Peter can't remember and does not want to remember. The stained carpet is carving itself into Peter's knees, his shoulders bending from raw pain, his ribs splintering and groaning, muscles screaming and heart protesting. There is a fire in his lungs and a gun to his heart. Peter is convinced that he is dead. And _why, why, Sirius? _Why does Sirius get to roam free and why does James get to reside safely in his home and _why, why, why_ does Peter always, _always, _get stuck with the rotten jobs and finally, finally –

'Godric's Hollow.'

Peter expects Voldemort to kill him regardless. Peter almost wishes he did.

**[November 1****st****, 1981]**

'Traitor!' Padfoot screams. He looks maniacal – more Black than Gryffindor. Sirius does not cry. Peter will always remember that.

'You don't understand.'

'I don't _understand._' Sirius advances on him, voice void of emotion. 'They are dead. They were murdered. They were my best friends and you-'

'Enough!' Peter screams.

'-killed them. You betrayed them. You revolting piece of filth. I hope you rot in-'

Peter doesn't know why he does it, but he finds himself raising his wand, aiming to kill. Sirius Black, who never seemed to have the time for Peter at Hogwarts. Sirius Black, who would make cruel jokes at Wormtail's expense. Sirius, who would fly into curious rages and ignore Peter for weeks at a time. Sirius, who was always calling Peter _pathetic _and _fat _and _boring. _

'Oh, you're going to kill me too, are you? Well done, Pettigrew. I hope you fu-'

'Shut up, shut up, shut up!' Peter screams, voice cracking. They're on a street, muggles pausing awkwardly to watch. Peter supposes that it must be an odd sight, two grown men pointing sticks at each other, hurling abuse.

'Did you, in that thick skull of yours, consider that they had a _baby? _A baby, Pettigrew. James had a son and you fucking. You went and. You. Prongs and Lily. They're gone because you. Do you even understand? They had a _child _and I was his Godfather and you went and.' Sirius' sentences collapse in an awkward heap.

'You don't understand. You never understand. The Dark Lord would have killed me! You're always barging around like you know ev-'

Sirius lunges at Peter, and Peter, heart thumping, begins to panic.

'How dare you!' Peter screams. 'You betrayed them! The Potter's, you betrayed them. They trusted you!'

He finds it surprisingly easy to fault Sirius Black.

Sirius stops short.

'You killed them!' Peter shouts again before, with barely a second thought, he blasts the street with the killing curse. There is an explosion and the screams, as quick as they had come, fade. Wormtail pulls out the knife that, with a hint of irony, he remembers Sirius gave him. The pain is sharp and he feels his vision blurring at the edges, his now-stub of a finger crimson red. He refuses to think of the muggles he has killed and the friends he has betrayed and the doom that he has inevitably dropped upon Sirius. Peter refuses to think. Thinking is awkward and terrifying and lonesome. Being a human is difficult and bothersome and tiring. Peter feels as though his whole life is a series of bothersome, tiring events.

And Peter Pettigrew – awkward, pathetic, stationary-despising Peter – morphs. His conflicted thoughts are too complex for the rodent, and Wormtail finds himself thinking: _flee,flee! _without really knowing why.

Oblivion.

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_Reviews and such are much appreciated! Thanks for reading._


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